


you'll be to blame, for playing this game

by curiosa



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiosa/pseuds/curiosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you sign up for your death sentence you’d expect the world to fall silent. That everything would stop the minute that tiny slip of paper is unravelled sealing your fate. That everything would cease to exist those few seconds before the first syllables are called out and you know, beyond a doubt, that everything  as you know it is about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll be to blame, for playing this game

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the 2012 teen wolf reverse bang. Many, many thanks to my artist, Flitter, who inspired the piece. Her lovely artwork can be found [here.](http://flitter-and-fly.livejournal.com/48353.html)

 

 

* * *

 

_Derek_

Derek is six the first time he watches the games. He’s seen sneak peeks before of course, nothing too exciting like he sees the older kids play and act out together at school, safe for just a few more years yet and reckless with the knowledge of it, grabbing their throats or falling dramatically to the floor, whirling around as they act out the latest grizzly deaths to happen. The kind of snapshots that he’ll later know the Capitol edits out as much as they can, choosing instead to replay something with a bit more meat and violence. Nothing but thin, twiggy kids scrambling up rocky hills as loose gravel shifts beneath their shoes and they struggle to keep going, to keep standing on their own two feet for just a few minutes longer. Kids huddled around small popping fires, shoving dirty hands as close as they can to the warm flames as their eyes shift cautiously around their temporary alliances, kids from the career districts that are bigger shouldered or all wiry limbed, all ropey muscle flexing just beneath their skin, ready.

 

His Mom still says he’s too young to watch, that he’s the baby, and that as long as she still has something to say about it, he won’t be watching any of it. Curving a warm hand around his cheek as Laura swings her legs off a chair, nibbling on her fingernails and rolls her eyes at him.

 

Later, she tells him he isn’t missing anything, even if he doesn’t believe her, that all of the rest of the stuff is gruesome, and her eyes are wide and wet when she says it, looking off into the distance.

 

It’s before the Capitol rewards the districts with their own big screens in the squares so no one can get away from it, the games live for every single citizen, whether or not they want it. They’re at the market, pushing their way through the crowds as their Dad heads towards the back where the illegal trades take place, trusting Laura to keep an eye on her little brother. Derek immediately loses her, twisting through the lumber jacks legs like the thick tree trunks in the forest, boots still crusted with mud as they holler and shout out bets at each other, stinking of liquor and banging bottles of the stuff down on tables as they huddle around the markets old communal TV.

 

Derek carefully slides around one passed out drunk, curious and excited, fingers curling as he spies the TV and what’s on it, the two boys squaring off against one another, dirt and dried blood crusting the younger boys chin as the camera closes in and he shivers. He can’t be more than a few years older than Laura, fear making his face look younger still, his head hitting the dry dirt as the older boy scrambles as fast as he can to land right on top of him. Pinning him down, his arm tucked tight against his throat as the younger boys face flushes bright red and purple. He’s seen the older boys fight like this out on the streets, red blood bright and shiny against their teeth when they’re eventually pulled apart still squirming by the adults.

 

What he’s never seen and up to this day has never forgotten: the pure panic and desperation that spikes out of the both of them, the way that the younger boy freezes and the older boy moves faster than lightning, scrabbling to hold onto a knife as shiny and silver and fast as the small minnows you can catch up in Beacon Lake, bringing it down in an arc, one quick slash that ends everything.

 

The group of adults around him roar, making him jump as his heart beats out rabbit fast, his breath stuck in his throat for just a second, exchanging coins and trinkets into dirty palms as they push forward and Derek falls backwards.

“There you are,” shouts Laura, pushing her hands down onto his shoulders, eyes skimming the crowd and the TV behind him. The sound of the cannon booms in the background and he jumps again clawing into her, breathing in her familiar scent of burnt pine and smoke and wet earth until everything feels natural, like home, almost back to normal.

 

“What did you see?” She asks, smile sliding off of her. Eyes wide as her fingers dig like needles into his shoulders.

 

“The games?” she asks, quiet, almost like a whisper, then moves, urgent, spinning Derek around to face her. “It won’t ever happen to you, Derek.” Shaking him and pressing him tight against her. “You hear me? I won’t let it.”

 

Derek’s old enough to know the way the games work, forced to be there at the reapings even if their Mom won’t allow him to watch the rest of it. How between the ages of 12 and 18 there’s absolutely nothing that can protect you. Not your family. Not even an older sister.

 

He lets his hand curl around Laura’s, something that he’s trying to grow out of, but right now only makes him feel infinitely warmer and safe, allowing her to lead him away and back to their Dad as his breathing slows down and the moment drifts away, images of boys fighting fading as his Dad shows them the earthy root vegetables that they’ll cook up for tonight’s dinner.

 

On the walk home Laura’s breath is hot against his ear as she whispers out a promise, that she will never allow him to get reaped. That if need be she’ll be the District 7’s first volunteer.

 

Of course when the time comes, the District won’t allow it.

 

* * *

 

_15 years later_

_Stiles_

 

The second Scott McCall’s name is called from the reaping pot; Harris’ painted white lips stretching wide across his too white teeth, Stiles hears a noise like roaring.

 

It's loud, the noise coming from everywhere all at once and getting louder with every heartbeat, the pulse of it reminding him of the ocean. He’s never heard a real one, never even seen one if he’s being honest, so long as you don’t count what he’s caught in the tribute recaps, the games themselves, and the faded pictures found in some of the older books in classes. The closest he’s come to that large a stretch of water being the dam, a few of the streams that lead off from it, and of course the big lake up in Beacon forest, the one that freezes over in winter time and has all the younger kids daring each other to cross as the ice builds up thick enough to stand on.

 

The noise is a roaring in his ears, like he’s about to be caught by one of those angry bone white waves crashing down on him, the roar getting louder with each passing second as he turns to try and find his best friend amongst the crowd of teenage boys their own age, all looking back at him with the same open mouthed, slack jawed expressions, packed in tight like a school of blackmouth salmon trapped in one of the big fishing nets during farming season, twisting and turning, crashing around him.

 

There’s no sign of his friend anywhere and then just like that, Stiles spots him; pale in a way that shows his whole skin has drained of colour, a strange twist to his face like none of this can possibly be happening, as the crowd starts to separate, offering him up on a platter, and Stiles thinks back to just this morning, the way that Scott had pressed his hand carefully against Allison’s growing stomach, the way that she’d leaned back against him, twisting their fingers tighter together.

 

So before he even knows what he’s doing, Stiles starts moving.

 

A circle of space grows around him as he pushes his way through the crowd, arm already moving independent to his own thoughts, as if his head has any say whatsoever in the matter, fingertips stretching out and up as he offers himself up as district seven’s first volunteer, heart beating so fast in his chest that it drowns out everything. His feet trip one over the other as he breaks free of their group, stumbling into the open space and starts to make the long walk up to district seven’s podium, the silence around him deafening as everyone looks on, a shimmer of relieved and shiny faces.

 

It’s a shorter distance than you think, walking to your own death, and Stiles finds himself wishing for just a few more footsteps, a couple more seconds to think, as if that time could make all the difference.

 

Harris makes a grab for his wrist as Stiles struggles up the stone steps of the town hall building, nails digging into the sleeve of his shirt as he turns him around and pulls him in close to whisper, breath hot against his skin as he asks him, “Your name?” eyes blinking like flashing lights from behind his steel spectacles, and all Stiles can focus on is that the metal of them is probably worth more than his Dad can make in an entire year chopping wood for the Capitol.

 

“Kid?” Harris hisses, side eyeing the wide eye of the camera that’s whirring away and focused on the just the two of them, the giant eye of the Capitol unblinking as ever.

 

“Stiles,” he stutters, licking his lips quickly. “Stilinski.” He looks Harris straight in the eye, feeling everyone around him go silent.

 

“I volunteer.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You-” there’s a pause and a deep breath, “You absolute idiot.”

 

Scott barges into the room and lets the door hit the wall with a sharp enough bang that it startles everyone inside of it, elbowing aside a peacekeeper in a way that any other time would have Stiles scrambling towards his best friend in an effort to keep him from getting a beating.

 

You don’t just shove aside a peacekeeper like you own the place, you don’t, not ever.

 

It might not be a problem any longer for Stiles, but Scott’s still vulnerable, even if Stiles is the one who’s going to kick it in the short term. A nervous bout of laughter bubbling up from his stomach at the thought of it, because chances are you pick a fight with the wrong person and you won’t be waking up in your own bed in the morning. Everyone knows it happens.

 

 It speaks volumes about how Scott’s feeling because he’s known this ever since the two of them were ten and Scott caught a peacekeeper kicking the Walsh’s mangy mutt to the curb, just for sniffing around his ankles. Scott stepping in between them before the peacekeeper’s foot came down once again on its bared and smooth pink belly.

 

“Worth it,” he’d said afterwards, grinning with blood red teeth (the dog having made its escape as the peacekeeper’s fist came down for Scott instead of his original target), his Mom pale and shaken and angry, pressing a wad of cotton to his mouth with a grim and nervous frown as Stiles hovered nervously in the background, re-living the moment the peacekeeper’s fist had split open his best friend’s mouth over and over and wishing he’d had the courage to step in and stop it.

 

“What the hell do you-” Scott continues, “What would even make you think?” He loses his words, his face scrunching up as his anger and fear steals them away from him.

 

 “I don’t understand why you would do this for me?”

 

The thing is that’s always been Scott’s problem. Scott’s the selfless one, not Stiles, he never has been.

 

 “Why?” he asks and the only thing Stiles can think of to fire back at his friend is, “Why not?” Like the answer is obvious between them. He’s not got enough time to explain everything, not in the minutes they’ve got left together.

 

Thankfully at that moment Allison steps into place behind him, smoothly pulling herself forward, in between them. There are fresh tear tracks down her face and when she does smile down at Stiles it’s watery, one hand moving to scrub at her face, trying to smarten herself up, before smoothing over Scott’s shoulder, his face turning towards her as her free hand instinctively hovers protectively over the curve of her rounded belly.

 

It’s all the answer Stiles needs to know he’s made the right decision.

 

“I don’t know what to say-” she breaks off, shaking her head as her fingers curl tighter around Scott’s shoulder and she half mouths, half breathes out, “Thank you.”

 

Her eyes are watering again and Stiles has to blink and turn his face away, feeling the hollow column of his throat tighten.

 

He can deal with Scott’s righteous anger, handle it easily, and he knows that Scott isn’t really angry, at least not at him; he’s just confused and unsure, redirecting everything onto the wrong person. Allison’s pity on the other hand is a whole different matter, too sharp and raw and open, and Stiles isn’t sure it won’t break him completely.

 

“Time’s up.”

 

“What?” His voice breaks when he says it, but Stiles is too busy stumbling to his feet to pay attention to such a tiny slip of emotion. Scott’s already turning around, body full of sharp lines and edges as he tries to buy them just a couple more minutes. Not that it’s any use because the peacekeepers are already moving as one to usher the pair of them out.

 

“You have to make it back,” Scott says, wrapping his hand around Stiles’ wrist, his fingers turning bone white he’s holding him that tightly, shaking his whole arm so that Stiles will listen. He nods in reply, teeth chattering, his head so full of everything he wants and needs to say that all his mouth can do is gape open uselessly.

 

Allison’s quicker; she always has been, squeezing her away around Scott despite her added bulk and grasping Stiles’ shoulders, fingers digging into his skin until she’s sure she has his full attention. “You can use knives,” she tells him, “a crossbow,” and when he starts to shake his head she refuses to listen. “Just like I showed you, remember, in the woods?”

Stiles nods, attempting a smile and feeling his mouth fall into the wrong shape, all wobbly. He remembers the woods all right, how every single one of Allison’s shots had been clean and swift, hitting her targets right on point or dead in the centre, his own falling too wide and completely off the mark, not a single one hitting its intended target. She’d had her hair braided just this morning, pinned back atop the crown of her head like a princess, and Stiles remembers thinking how pretty she had looked, how after the reaping he’d have to tell her. Now it’s falling apart, strands coming down at the back of her neck and curling around her ears, a wisp or two falling into her eyes as she stares up at him, dark and wide and desperate.

 

“Take care of them both,” he says instead as Allison is pulled away from him and Scott barks out a hurried and choked, “No!” just as the door is slammed shut between them.

 

Five minutes go by before his Dad is allowed in, his face grey and having aged about ten years since Stiles last saw him this morning.

 

“Look,” Stiles starts, standing up from the plush chair he’s been sitting on since Scott and Allison were dragged out of the room before him. He’s thinking of his Father days after his Mother had died, the way he’d collapsed in on himself with grief, barely functional, and then worse, weeks later when for a time only the cheap white liquor, the kind you could only buy on the black market, would comfort him, the kind that burned the back of your throat and stung your eyes minutes after you’d had your first swallow.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, waving the concern away even as his face starts to twist into something that Stiles really never wanted to see take over that part of him again. “You,” and his voice stutters, hand out and finger pointing. “You just look after yourself. She didn’t have a choice but you; you come back to me, okay?”

 

He pulls Stiles into him; voice rough as it comes out, repeating the same words over and over, “This isn’t fair. It’s not okay. It isn’t, Stiles, it isn’t.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, half whispering the words into his Dad’s shoulder, because yes he’s doing this for Scott and for Allison and their baby, but there’s his Dad to think about too and in the way that there’s always going to be a part of him that will never grow up, and will always worry about his Dad, he finds that he selfishly doesn’t want to leave him.

 

“Your Mother would be so proud of you.” He steps back, pulling them far enough apart so that he can get a good look at him. “I’m so proud of you.”

 

The last one through the door is Mrs McCall, Scott’s mom, who folds him into a hug the likes of which she hasn’t since the day after his own Mother’s death, his head fitting into the crook of her shoulder and her hair smelling strongly spicy, a mixture of rosemary and aniseed and burning, all the herbs she uses for her medicines, and the comfort leaves him the same way it did back then: completely split open.

 

“Your Dad will be fine,” she says, pulling back a little. “I promise, and that baby, well you’ll see for yourself, I’m sure of it, okay? You’ll come back to us.” She grips his hand tighter, breathless and if her words dip a little at that last sentence, they both choose to ignore it.

 

“Time,” one of the peacekeepers calls.

 

Stiles finds himself wishing for more of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles isn’t sure how you’re supposed to react towards a fellow tribute from your district, like you’re complete strangers or you’re in this together? Are you supposed to forget that one of you will definitely not make it back home, possibly both of you in reality? It’s not as if there’s a hunger games etiquette, a chance to ask previous tributes if it’s better to cut ties straight away or wiser in the long run to maybe stick together. Through the car ride they’d studiously ignored each other, Harris a wall between them so that it was easier to pretend the other didn’t exist, not particularly difficult when you had a pit of grief, anger and fear rolling around in your stomach.

 

Erica’s got a cloud of frizzy hair that no matter how much she tries to pin back refuses to listen. On reaping days she holds it together in a tight bun with just a single curl of blue ribbon, her Mom, she tells him, having had to help her this morning as she’d had too shaking fingers to even attempt to do it neatly. There are wisps and curls already beginning to unravel and Erica pushes back strands of her hair, sliding curls back behind her ear or twirling them around and around her grubby fingers.

 

When she starts talking her voice is shaky, high as a reed and nervous. She likes the colour red because it’s strong and passionate; her dream job is to work in one of the shoe stores and save up for her own pair of heels in the same ruby colour, the kind that she’s seen girls wear and stroll around in, in the Capitol, not, she admits, her voice smoothing out, that she has anywhere to wear them. By the time the trains halfway to the Capitol Stiles has already found out that she’s the older of two siblings, a sister to a baby brother. That at school she doesn’t really have any friends, at least no one close that would miss her, that when she’d been told to say goodbye it had just been her Mom, her Dad and her brother. That when her name had been called out she’d still hoped for all of five seconds that it had all been a big mistake, that something had gone wrong, that maybe it was all meant for a different Erica.

 

She thinks he was brave to volunteer, maybe even a little bit stupid.

 

For now, Stiles decides, they’re definitely going to stick together.

 

“What do you know about them?” Erica asks almost too quietly, minutes later and still avoiding direct eye contact with him, dirt smudged fingers worrying at the crisp white cloth of the table that’s now between them. Harris will pitch a fit if he sees that, the cloth already turning a muddy colour as it slips in and out of her fingers.

 

She looks scared, he thinks, absolutely terrified, and Stiles wonders if he looks the same to her. Like at any moment the small tremors he can feel running up and down his chest will shake him apart completely.

 

“The mentors.” She continues, as if she thinks he hasn’t heard her, this time picking up the courage to look him straight in the face, her heavy lidded eyes a dark shade of hazel, like some of the oldest trees back in Beacon forest.

 

District 7 has had eight victors of the games with three still living mentors, nothing when compared to the career districts, but not a shabby number compared to some of the others either, as if the further down the list you go, 9, 10, 11, 12, the more likely you were to be a loser.

 

The oldest living victor is Gerard Argent, Allison’s Grandfather, he’d spent the first ten years after his game living in the Victor’s Village with his family, before passing the house down to his son and daughter and moving out into the Capitol, coming back rarely for the odd visit. Stiles has seen him on the TV during the interviews and recaps concerning their tributes, but he isn’t sure if he still mentors now or just leaves it all to Derek.

 

Next in line is Heather Grant who has got to be about thirty but everybody knows is knitting on only the one needle.

 

In the showdown of her games, she’d managed to gut a big boy from district 2, his last glancing blow catching her up the side of her head in a way that if you’re watching on a decent TV can still make Stiles shudder, the way that you can hear and see the bones in her head shatter.

 

The thing is the hit didn’t kill her, and the last few hours of that years games was a slow wait in seeing who gave up and bled out first, and as it turns out Heather miraculously held out longer, the Capitol’s hovercraft picking up her lifeless body and flying her back to the waiting doctors, but even with the latest technology the Capitol has on offer, they hadn’t been able to properly fix the damage done to her head, having left it too long for the lack of blood supply not to permanently harm her.

 

She’d done nothing but smile at the cameras during her interviews, slurring the little words she could say in a way that left even the Capitol citizens squirming away from their screens, uneasy. They’d done a short victory tour that year, mostly focusing on the replays of the games most popular events, the grizzliest fights, the most violent killings.

 

Now she lives in the village, practically a hermit with just her mom for company, an elderly lady now with eyes as glazed over as her daughter’s, plodding around the house and the district gathering necessary groceries and trinkets. Stiles remembers the way that as kids they’d go and dare each other to get as close as possible to the crazy house, tucked away into a hidden corner with lilac and soft blue wildflowers growing up the side of the porch in summer, thickets of ivy and soft clematis scrambling up and over the windows in order to keep out prying eyes and nosy neighbours.

 

After Heather it was just Derek.

 

“Derek.” he says, “We’ll probably get Derek.”

 

An image flits into his head, steel claws and red blood, dirt that seemed stitched into the lines of his skin as Derek had come up roaring.

 

He can fit what he knows about Derek Hale into the one hand, it’s not a lot, but then considering what he knows about the other victors and tributes in previous games, it’s something. He’s at least seen Derek around the District, living, breathing and still very much whole and intact unlike Heather, even if he’s never come across as much of a talker.

 

He knows that Derek won his games five years ago, that apart from the year after his games, when it seemed like all you could hear about within a five mile radius was Derek Hale and his string of rumours, with even Capitol gossip spreading thick and fast through their own district, the older citizens knocking back trades as they whispered about his goings on with a swift wink of an eye between their drinks and illegal bargaining. Then just like that, a year or so after his games, the tragedy of the old Hale house fire struck and Derek lost his family and hunger games fame in the same swoop of an evening, seemingly disappearing as far away from the public eye as possible within a week of it all happening. There are rumours that say he lives in the woods now, preferring his own company to that of the Districts citizens.

 

Erica moves forward, screeching her chair loud enough to bring him back to reality.

 

“He’ll teach us how to-” she stops and swallows, forcing herself to start over. “He’ll teach us how to survive this?”

 

Stiles thinks about how she’s pinning survival on Derek, how maybe he is too in the back of his mind, hoping that there’s something he can teach him.

 

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to answer, looking away from Erica, a mirror of everything he’s feeling.  Out through the window at the blur of districts that get stranger and stranger, down at the table to the cutlery that looks so shiny it’s like it’s made out of silver, anywhere than at Erica who is waiting, looking at him expectantly, hopeful, because the chances of them both surviving this is zero and the chances that at least one of them might is definitely just as slim.

 

* * *

 

 

Erica‘s already sitting by the time Stiles arrives for breakfast, nibbling on something that flakes down the front of her dress as she picks it apart, coating the tips of her fingers and her mouth with a fine white powder. She’s still wearing the same dress from yesterday, clearly, like Stiles, more comfortable in something non-Capitol and garish. Her eyes as big as the moon as she stares up at him, reminding Stiles of a rabbit caught in one of Allison's snares when she took them hunting, trapped and fully aware of what was inevitably coming, crouched so low in her seat that she can’t possibly make herself seem any smaller.

 

The reason for all of this is that Derek Hale sits just across from her wearing a District-made plain white vest that pulls tight across the span of his shoulders.

 

“Nice of you to finally join us,” he says to Stiles, gesturing at the hoard of food loaded on the table: golden pastries and rich, ripe fruits, plates of various meats and baskets of fresh bread that threaten to make his mouth water.

 

“Grab what you want and we can get this thing started.”

 

Stiles hears Erica’s stuttered inhale at that and mentally stops himself from punching Derek’s lights out. It isn’t like he’s Erica’s new best friend, but she’s in the same boat as him, and somebody treating their imminent death as if it’s a yearly chore to get through sends him spinning. It’s one thing to have already faced the hunger games and survived; another entirely to act like it’s no big deal to the two people unlikely to make it.

 

“Okay,” he bites back instead, letting the aroma of all that rich food distract him, he’s definitely feeling reasonably hungrier today after a full day of not eating anything.

 

As he begins to pick at the food, he can already feel Derek’s eyes glaring pinpoints into him, carefully selecting some crispy looking kind of potatoes, bacon and a couple of bread rolls that when he takes a seat and breaks through the crust are amazingly soft, even compared to some of the finest breads baked back home fresh in the bakery.

 

For a full five minutes Stiles picks at his food around the tension it feels like the room’s exuding, listening to the noise of cutlery clanging against plates and the sound of monotonous chewing as Derek scoffs away, ignoring the both of them completely, before his temper rises enough and Stiles snaps out, “So aren’t you supposed to be here to teach us something?”

 

Erica freezes, fingers stilling midway between tearing apart another pastry. She’s not even eating them now, just laying waste to whorls of buttery strips of pastry.

 

Derek completely ignores him. Stabbing at a hunk of ham with his fork and tearing it apart with only the use of his canines and fingers, sending an entering Harris into rolling his eyes towards the back of his head as he mutters under his breath about the districts downfall and bad breeding.

 

It's not a mistake when the knife Derek hadn't been using lands directly smack bang where Harris' fingers had been seconds away from reaching, a strange yelping noise coming out of his throat as he recoils backwards and whips his head around to glare at the three of them, at Derek who is now, of course, ignoring him completely.

 

Harris sniffs, using a pair of tongues to shovel some fruit onto his plate before striding out of the carriage to eat in his own room peacefully.

 

There’s a split second of awed silence before Erica slaps her hands on the table, the most confident Stiles has ever seen her, and barks out, "Now that you have to teach me."

 

Derek looks up from his breakfast and stares at Erica who is brave enough to lift her chin up defiantly, turning his head to eye up Stiles who finds that if he breathes through his nose slowly stops him from completely shaking.

 

"You're the one that volunteered, right?" He asks, about to tear into another roll with his fingers.

 

"Right," Stiles answers, “And I don’t regret it for a second.” He’d known he’d made the right decision even as Scott had shouted at him, angry, when Allison had moved in to try and settle him, letting Scott curve a protective hand around her belly.

 

"Family or-"

 

"Friend, but," Stiles thinks of Scott, the way that they've grown up together, almost inseparable. "He may as well be my brother."

 

Derek nods, another knife twisting easily through his fingers. In his hands he makes it look nothing like a simple piece of blunt cutlery.

 

There’s a chime that runs through the train and Derek's eyes flit towards the windows, the steady backdrop of trees and walls thinning out into a city landscape, slim and stretched out buildings, taller than even the highest and oldest trees back in Beacon forest.

 

"What is that?" Erica runs to the window, pressing her nose almost flat across the glass, whipping her head back towards Derek. "Are we?"

 

Derek nods, looking bored, leaning back in his chair and waving his hand with a flourish. "The Capitol." His gaze drifts back towards his breakfast, grunting at Stiles that he too should go and look at it.

 

Stiles walks slowly towards the window, the buildings stacking up the closer they get to the centre. So large and up close that he feels the need to jump with every gap between them. Not the old stonework type like back home, the kind that you can tell took months of work under dusty, bleeding hands, but thin and spindly, pointed towers, designs with swirls and curves which make his head spin at how in Panem they keep on standing, glasswork that catches the suns light in its sharp angles and creates a colour of rainbows in shimmering rivers below them.

 

"Look!" Erica turns to grin at him, pointing down at the flash cars that zip along the smooth roads of the Capitol, the citizens all tiny pinpricks of loud and audacious colours, as bright and individual as the jars of expensive sweets back in District 7.

 

Everything gets bigger as they get closer, heads turning to swivel at the next arriving train of tributes, bright lipstick grins curving to greet them as people start prodding one another to turn around and look, waving up at the train as it speeds through the Capitol's streets to their destination. Erica waves back, bouncing on the balls of her feet as they mouth their greetings back at her, grinning despite the words being caught and tossed away with the wind and their movement.

 

Stiles hesitates, turning to see Derek watching the both of them.

 

"Go ahead and play the game," he says, "One of them might just be the one who saves you."

 

So Stiles does what he’s told, fingers curling, waving until his wrist starts to throb with the effort, until the train eventually pulls to a stop at their station.

* * *

 

 

If Scott were here he’d probably be laughing.

 

“Twirl around,” Lydia demands, looping a finger in the air before him, a scary package of strawberry blonde ringlets and peaches and cream skin, her eyes flashing as she waits, the red feathers that adorn her eyelashes fluttering down to her cheeks with each tiny movement. Her mouth a bright slash of red that she earlier told Stiles was tattooed on permanently.

 

“Twirl?” Stiles asks, even as Deaton throws him a look that says he’s better off doing as she’s asking. She might only be his assistant stylist right now but Lydia Martin was definitely in it for the bigger picture. In fact the monstrosity he was wearing right now was half a product of her imagination, with Deaton and Morell’s tweaking.

 

Derek enters just as he’s beginning to turn around in small steps, which is really, really bad timing, the outfit his costume is made out of surprisingly comfy, even if he does feel incredibly exposed, like he can feel Derek’s eyes tracing every inch of his body, despite almost every lick of skin being covered by the thin, gauzy black material completely, as if he’s covered by a shadow.

 

“ _What_ is this?” Derek asks, as Erica slinks her way over, playing the part Morell’s advised her to be even as he can see the tips of her fingers trembling. She’s matching of course, though her costume is more of a gown, big and puffy over her legs and tight over her waist like a corset. The material is just as tight covering her skin, tight over her chest with black wisps of the same material that curl up towards her collarbones, the same white gauzy fabric under laid beneath it all, finishing both looks as if they’re just making their way out of a misty moonlit forest.

 

“Forest spirits.” Lydia states, as if he’s an idiot for not understanding the concept.

 

“We thought this year we’d go for something a little bit different.” Deaton says as Morell, Erica’s stylist nods back at him in agreement.

 

“Lumberjacks just weren’t good enough, huh?” Stiles adds, crossing his arms under his elbows and picking at a section that’s made to look like a twig crawling over his wrist.

 

“What do you think?” Morell asks Derek who’s still staring at Stiles who can feel a weird jelly roll beginning in his stomach.

 

“I think that’s a yes.” Lydia says as Derek clears his throat, looking away from him as Stiles feels himself blushing. “I mean we’ve done the absolute best with what we’ve had to work with.” She fluffs up the jagged edges of his shoulders, made to look real branches like he’s one with a forest. Rolling her eyes as Stiles looks at her questioningly. “I mean it nicely.”

He’s about to argue back when Derek interrupts them. “It’s different,” he says, his voice dry, shrugging, throat bobbing up and down as fast as Stiles’ heart beat. “Powerful though,” he looks right at Stiles, “and definitely a statement.” Stiles grins back at him, feeling a hit like a sugar rush run through him. “Let’s see what the Capitol and the careers make of it.” They’re already starting to get looks off the others, pinprick eyes trying to get a glance at them. “Come here.” With that he pulls Erica and Stiles together. “This is your first chance to prove your worth to them. You need to look formidable, like you’re going to put up one hell of a challenge. Get the sponsors and the tributes thinking.”

 

Stiles nods, facing out at the remaining tributes still meandering around and preparing to get into their chariots, the usual costumes of formidable gladiators and apple pie farm hands meant to celebrate the districts.

 

Some of the costumes are more daring than others; District one shimmering ahead, ready to make their debut, the boy turning around to sneer back at him, practically naked apart from the artfully placed diamonds that glitter with every twist and turn of his muscles.

 

Stiles’ pulse starts to jackhammer alarmingly high and so loud that Derek, standing so close and practically curved against his skin, must be able to hear it, his skin prickling all over and coming out in goosebumps.

 

“I don’t think I can do this.” He mutters, taking a step back as Morell helps lift Erica into their chariot.

 

Derek turns to face him, passing him a look that’s a whisper, a secret between them. “You’re wrong; you’re stronger than any of these kids in this arena. I’m sure of it.” He helps Stiles get into the chariot as Lydia fusses last minute details. Stiles turning his head right before they’re pulled into the arena, catching the curve of a smile that takes over Derek’s face, as he mouths back up to him, “You can do this.”

 

* * *

 

 

“The most important factors to keeping you both alive are the basics.” Derek tells them, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that’s chipped away on the lip as Gerard Argent stands behind him, looming over everything like a dark and malevolent shadow, having come out of the woodwork as soon as they’d made all the gossip at the opening ceremony.

 

He claps a hand down hard on Derek’s shoulder and Stiles doesn’t miss the flash of teeth that accompanies it from Derek. “What Derek’s trying to say,” Gerard goes, “Is that if you can’t keep yourself alive on your own in the elements then there is absolutely no chance that either of you are going to make it.” He stares at the both of them keenly, as if the chances are high that they’re already both crossed off on his list of casualties.

 

Derek glares at him. “Or, to put it simply,” And less threatening, Stiles mentally adds. “Depending on the circumstances of the arena, chances are at least half of the other tributes will die from something as simple as exposure.”

 

Stiles thinks of the times he’s been hunting in Beacon forest, crossing the border lines of the district, both of which are considered illegal, and funnily enough done right under Gerard’s nose with his own granddaughter. Allison trying to show both him and Scott how to hunt, how to track, talents that right about now would be extremely useful.  Scott had at least been able to catch traits of the wind, faint smells in the air as Stiles had stumbled along after them both practically blind folded.

 

“So if it’s cold we need to be able to create a fire?” Erica suggests, and Stiles has noticed how since Gerard’s been around she seems a lot more unsure about everything.

“If you want to get yourself killed, sure.” Gerard scoffs, just as Derek replies, “Not a good idea, it would be like a beacon.” The smoke in the day leaving a wide trail and the light sending out a signal at night time. Not that in most cases you could get away without making a fire at some point, you just had to be extra careful.

 

“What about water?” Stiles asks and Derek nods.

 

“Good question. Water’s one of the most important. Take care to keep track of any fresh water supplies as soon as possible. If you can get your hands on a pack, some kind of container, even better.”

 

It’s when they’re about to leave for final evaluations, with what feels like far too much information cramming for attention in his head, that Gerard corners him.

 

“You know my Granddaughter tells me that you’re an incredibly resilient young man.”

 

Taken aback, Stiles looks up at him, uncomfortable with it just being the two of them, peering around his shoulder to see that Derek’s too busy occupied helping Erica. “Thank you, sir. Allison’s a good friend of mine, she’s amazing.”

 

Gerard ignores the compliment. “It’s actually kind of sweet, the way she believes in you. The way she thinks you can make it back home to the district.” Stiles swallows, his nerves setting on fire, wanting to be anywhere but right here in this conversation.

 

“But we both know the truth, don’t we, Mr Stilinski?”

 

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just waits and swallows.

 

“You should have left young Mr McCall to his fate, the way it was supposed to happen.”

 

Stiles’ hand on the door slips, his legs weakening, unable to hold him, because what Gerard is suggesting, what Gerard is saying he made, or at least pulled the right strings to happen - “What are you?”

 

Gerard slams the door closed between them, his hand flat out against the wood panels shaking, his arm blocking Stiles from leaving. “We both know you’re no fool, Mr Stilinski. It’s almost a shame that mind of yours won’t be functioning for much longer.”

 

“You planted Scott’s name in the reaping?” His voice is a whisper, his stomach rolling, mind screaming.

 

Gerard presses in on him, teeth snapping. “You really think I’d let a granddaughter of mine ruin her life with some upstart mongrel from a district?”

 

“Scott’s perfectly-” he drifts off, wanting to say normal and, catching the angry flash in Gerard’s eyes, thinking better of it. He might be about to be dropped into an arena full of kids wanting to kill him, but Stiles isn’t wanting his death sentence to come any time sooner either.

 

“Let me paint you a picture,” Gerard says, “You broken in a forest, a beach, a dark cave you haven’t been able to find your way out of.” He flourishes his hand. “The location doesn’t really matter, but a year from now, a few months, once you’re out of the way.” Gerard shrugs. “Maybe there’s a tragic accident, maybe there’s a double reaping. Poor young Mr McCall, he just won’t see it coming.”

 

Stiles takes a step back, feeling like there’s not enough air in the room, the walls spinning.

 

“You can’t do that.” He murmurs and Gerard just smiles back at him slowly, lips curling from one corner to the other.

 

“I already have, Mr Stilinski, or how else do you suppose you wound up here?”

 

There’s a banging on the door and Gerard lets his arm relax as Derek pushes his way in between them, catching the way that Stiles must look, his heavy breathing. “Is everything okay here?”

 

Gerard smiles, lips pulling away from his gums. “Mr Stilinski and I were just having a meeting about strategy.” Derek’s face narrows, looking towards him and Stiles still finds himself nodding along with Gerard Argent.

 

A voice comes out that’s not his own. “He was passing along his tips for survival.”

 

Gerard nods, patting him sharp on the back. “Now run along, Mr Stilinski. We wouldn’t want you running late for your evaluation.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s with you?” Erica asks, prodding at him before tying her hair back with some kind of black stretchy elastic, the stuff webbed out over her fingers. Morell seems able to keep it all under control, big glossy curls that shake down over her shoulders, but whenever it’s left up to Erica’s own devices, which is pretty much any time they’re not going to be seen on the big screens, it’s spitting out all over. Not that Stiles has to worry about any of that, running a hand out over his newly acquired peach fuzz of a haircut.

 

“Nothing,” he answers, even as he can feel the blood flowing through him bubbling. The facts circling round his head, that it’s not enough that the Capitol pulls this crap on them every year, taking away their family and friends, the District’s children, but the truth that there are people like Gerard out there working the system, twisting the games to their own sick needs and satisfaction.

 

“Stiles!” Eric catches his arm to get his attention. The pair of them are lined up waiting for their evaluations, Erica siding up to him whenever any of the other tributes get called up or come anywhere near her, pressing up tight against his back like a mollusc.

 

In the last few days the usual packs have already started to pull towards each other, the blond boy and dark haired girl from district one, the almost identical pure bulk of volunteers from two, even the seemingly more placid boy from four sticking with what’ll likely be the longest set of survivors. All more athletic and stronger than the rest of the pickings, openly staring and jeering at the rest of them as they try to avoid eye contact, any chance of stirring up lasting rivalries that might make their way into the arena and prove suicidal.

 

After fifteen minutes district one comes out, cocky as he brushes right into him. “Hey,” Stiles shouts, right as the kid from district one, skin tight uniform clinging to every sharp curve and dip of his muscles turns to face him. Stiles lifts his chin up, the remaining tributes beginning to crowd in around the three of them, like they can smell the blood already, vultures circling.

 

The district one kid takes a quick look at him, head weaving to the side, neck tilted. “You’re the one that volunteered, right? From what  11 or something?” There’s a bright white seven across his chest and Stiles knows he’s trying to rile him up, that he’s really picked the wrong day to do it, huffing out a laugh, dipping his head and grinning right back at him. His names on the tip of his tongue, Johnson or Jackal, something that begins with a J, he’s sure of it. Stiles remembers the cocky kid’s reaping, the smug twist to his lips as he’d been called out - “Jackson!”

 

“Stiles,” Erica warns and he can feel her trembling beside him.

 

“What? Your friend wouldn’t have made it through the training?” Stiles tries counting to five, images of Scott and Gerard’s slick grin flashing through him.

 

He should never have even been reaped in the first place.

 

“Scott’s worth ten of you.”

 

Jackson laughs, his jaw clenching. “What was he your boyfriend, got a little crush on him have you?”

 

“Back off,” Stiles presses, hands hitting Jackson’s chest as Erica throws out her arms to stop him. The peacekeepers lining the corridor are beginning to get a whiff of something, dragging their backs off the walls to move in closer. “Stiles,” she hisses, hands circling his wrist and pulling.

 

“Yeah, listen to your bitch.” Jackson gloats. “I’m surprised you had the guts to even volunteer for him.” Jackson sneers, the grin on his face smug and sharp; right before Stiles’ fist strikes him.

 

It’s a mad scramble as tributes pitch forward, Jackson’s fist splitting right above his eye before Erica’s diving in between them, trying to pull him up, a buzzing in his ears as he hears the distant sound of sharp feet and peacekeepers tugging on limbs as the kids scatter backwards. Jackson’s flat on his back, face full of outrage. “You’re dead. I’ve got your number 7.”

 

Stiles shrugs out of Erica’s hold, glaring at her as she looks away hurt, skipping back a step as if he’s burnt her.

 

* * *

 

 

“What the hell happened?  Stiles?” Derek shouts, an eyebrow rising as Stiles completely ignores him pushing right on past him, his veins thrumming to still hit something, fists shaking, and there’s a high possibility that it’ll be Derek if he even thinks about coming after him.

 

“There was a fight,” Erica explains, right as Gerard walks around the corner catching sight of him, of the bruise around his eye, the cut that’s still tender just slicing through his eyebrow.

 

“Already making enemies, Mr Stilinski? Now that just won’t do.”

 

He catches and tries to ignore the sly smile Gerard throws his way right before the door to his room closes. As he sags down on his bed and closes his eyes, a roll of heavy desperation running right through him.

 

Its minutes before the door reopens, a sag to his side as the mattress dips beside him. “Go away,” he bites out but Derek just ignores him.

 

“You know for my evaluation I got a five. I tried picking up a knife, a bow and arrow, anything I could get my hands on, and all I could feel were my fingers trembling.”

 

“While that’s incredibly touching it’s also extremely hard to believe.” Stiles rolls over onto his side, eyes flicking up at him. “Also, I’m not worried about my final evaluation score. I’m officially past the point of caring.”

 

“Now _that_ is extremely hard to believe.” Everybody knows the final score goes towards your chances of sponsorship, as well as Derek and Gerard’s ability to charm the Capitol, which, at least in Gerard’s case probably won’t ever be happening.

 

“You got a five?” Derek nods. “But I don’t remember…”

“Of course not,” Derek sighs, “That’s the way the Capitol plays it.”

Stiles remembers the way that Derek Hale had won the 67th hunger games with a grin on his face, his eyes seemingly flashing red as he focused in on the cameras. By that point he’d had a dislocated shoulder and a jagged cut that tore down his left eye, bad enough so that when he grinned or grimaced it still ran fresh blood, add to that a couple of what were most probably broken fingers, and it was a miracle he was still able to maintain his grip on the steel tipped claws that had sliced across the girl from 1’s neck as keen as a knife. Her skin paling as she feebly clutched at her throat, blood bubbling up through her fingers, gaping back up at him like a flopping fish, her dying throes live for all of Panem to watch, before the cannon boomed for the final time, declaring Derek the winner.

The setting that year had been a lush and rolling mountainside, heavily wooded on one side, so that if you were lucky and smart you could hide behind the trees, and thick, virtually impassable rock on the other. A perfect setting, the commentators had insisted, for a competitor of District 7, and as if to prove them right, Derek Hale had swiftly made his way through the ranks, surviving day after day until he’d shuffled up to the cornucopia, that year based at the mountain’s summit, right in time for the final showdown with the girl from District 1.

He’d been aloof and quiet during the interviews both before and after, the hosts gushing over how mysterious their new victor was, how dark and full of promise, and Stiles had stood watching the screen like the rest of his district, mesmerised and scared by the way that Derek had grinned through the screen seemingly at him, teeth sharp points that caught at his lower lip.

 He’d had such a boner for Derek; even Scott had mercilessly teased him.

 

“What matters,” Derek insists, “Is how you come across in the arena. You’re smart, Stiles, smarter than you think you are, smarter than Gerard gives you credit.”

 

“You don’t like him.”

 

“Not many people do like Gerard Argent. Come here, let me see that.” Stiles sits up, sitting cross legged, letting Derek dab his eyebrow with something that smells and, _“Ow,”_ stings of pure alcohol.

 

“Don’t be such a baby.” But he’s smiling, lips soft and curled at the corners.

 

“You could have been such a big star,” Stiles shifts, wincing as the cotton crosses his cheekbone, thinking back to the time when all anybody talked about was Derek Hale and his victory. He could have had anything or anyone he wanted. “What happened to you?”

 

“Fame comes with a price.” Derek’s jaw tightens, his eyes clouding over darkly. “I made the wrong choices, some bad decisions. Winning the hunger games isn’t always everything it’s cracked up to be.”

 

Stiles stops him from cleaning his wounds, fingers pressing down and encircling his wrist until Derek’s watching him darkly. “But what if you have to win? How do you know what’s the right thing to do in the long run?”

 

Derek sits back, mouth flattening as if he’s thinking. “You protect the ones that you love. That’s all that matters. If I could go back…” He pauses, shaking his head. “You don’t let the Capitol take them.”

 

Stiles bobs his head feeling his face begin to crack as the tears begin to threaten. “I’m so scared. This is so much bigger than me.” He grabs fistfuls of the bed sheets, fingers clutching them tightly.

 

Slowly Derek begins to pull his fingers away from their death grip, pressing his mouth to the column of Stiles’ throat where he can feel his heart beat. You don’t just kiss your mentor, it’s probably against one of the rules, but for once Stiles finds himself not caring, twisting around so that he can loop his hands around Derek and pull him in, drag him even closer, licking a strip up his throat, desperate, until the two of them are toppling over. The both of them fitting together as Derek drags his teeth along Stiles’ bottom lip, his skin all a flush, his spine trembling, his hands just beginning to snake their way under Derek’s shirt, around the xylophone bones of his ribcage, as Erica bangs two times on the door telling them to get a move on, that they’re about to announce the scores for the final evaluations.

 

They jump apart at that, staring at each other breathless. Derek’s hand still tight around his wrist, unwilling to let him go as Stiles scrambles awkwardly to get off the bed and not fall to pieces.

 

* * *

 

 

The upside is that despite his blatant disregard of the rules they score him a solid nine in his evaluation. “A lesson,” Gerard tuts, “Now you’ll be on all of their watch lists.” Smiling slyly.

 

Lydia rolls her eyes the next day when she sees him. “What am I supposed to do with you?” The gossip about the fight, the way Stiles struck down Jackson already circulating around the stylists like wildfire, even, she tells him, changing some of the betting. Her touch is surprisingly gentle as she applies some kind of cover up to the bruising, a soft peach tan that hides the deep blues and blacks so that not even the sharp cameras can detect them. Her eyes narrow as she catches the raw slash of his mouth, the telltale marks along his chin and his throat, as her eyes brighten knowingly, her lips grinning.

 

“It’s about time somebody got a piece of that.” Stiles feels his neck flush red as she points at him. “Who made the first move? Deaton thought Derek would be too constipated in his own drama. But don’t tell me you’ve actually got some moves?”

 

Despite the ticking of his imminent death, Stiles actually finds himself laughing.

 

She kisses him once on the cheek before she leaves him, eyes bright with tears as she hugs him tightly.

 

“You can do this you know, Derek will help you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first ten seconds of the games you spend adjusting.

 

Derek had warned him of this, that the first thirty seconds would both stretch into infinity and seemingly vanish, that by the time your eyes adjusted to the light, tributes might already be running or dying. That, if unlucky, you might be being targeted before you even took a step off your platform, that some might even be dead if they step off too early.

 

Stiles blinks the sun out of his eyes and takes in a gulp of fresh cool air. All of the blood rushing to his head so that all he can make out is a high pitched static. The weather, so far, seems normal, which doesn’t mean much for now, not with the gamemaker’s being in control of whatever they want, but at least they haven’t picked out anything drastic this year, scorching desert or ice cold freezing conditions. The cornucopia glitters ahead of him, packs of food and survival kits littering the grass ready and ripe for the picking. The weapons, knives, crossbows and small daggers, all stuffed away in the back of the horn, probably too far in for him to make it.

 

On first sight the setting this year appears to be a forest, a thicket of trees promising him shelter if he can only make it, a large lake off down the hill that would be suicidal to run for now, but certainly necessary later. Why make such an obvious statement if waters aplenty?

 

He takes a quick spin around the circle, looking for the familiar face of Erica, a point to connect to; right as the gong sounds and Stiles is forced to move, to start running. It’s never particularly been his strongpoint, but, as Derek had earlier told him, it’s amazing what a wolf at your feet can do for keeping your legs ticking over nicely with gravity.

 

As predicted the careers are running towards the middle, and Stiles spots the boy from 4, Danny, grabbing some kind of scimitar hook things before he spins around and takes out the girl from 11. She doesn’t even have a chance to scream before she’s fallen. Stiles skidding to a stop his heart thudding, trying to fall back a step as he spies a pack to his left waiting, and he’s just about to curl the strap around his fingers when the boy from 9 swoops it up seconds before him, the curve of his grin fleeting as he swerves away, heading for the dark trees of the forest which is what Stiles should be doing.

 

There’s another pack to his right but to go for it brings him in closer to the fighting, and Derek _had_ told him just to make for the opposite direction. He looks up then down and mutters a quick sorry. The cornucopia is a bloodbath and Stiles doesn’t want his name added to the midnight cannons, but at the same time if he doesn’t get his hands on something his chances might be just as slim later.

 

He picks his pace up, the boy from 3 falling down dead near his feet, a slim, bronze arrow protruding from his chest, mouth still bubbling blood as if he might still be breathing.

 

He’s two steps away from the pack when a blow from his back sends him sprawling, palms skidding across the grass as Jackson falls right on top of him. They both scrabble to get to their feet, Stiles’ heart in his throat, pounding. Jackson might not appear to have a weapon in his hands but he’s broader, pure muscle where Stiles is severely lacking.

 

“I knew you’d be my first kill,” he says, rushing towards him. Stiles ducks, hearing the scream of a girl to his right and sending up a quick prayer that it’s not Erica, that she at least is able to make it. He still hasn’t found her in the chaos, hoping that she actually listened to Derek and ran as fast as she could to the forest.

 

“You really shouldn’t have messed with me, 7.” He snarls. His eyes bugging out as Stiles tries to weave away from the danger zone of the cornucopia. Maybe if he can get Jackson’s back up, too focused on him, someone will take him out of the running.

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have messed with me, Jackson.” He’s sure his voice lilts at the end, breaking away from him. The threats not there but the boy from 5 is, a dagger grazing the line of Jackson’s chin as his arm strikes out, pushing past the both of them, Jackson falling with a snarl as he stumbles up to a sitting position.

 

“Get a move on,” shouts 5, throwing a look to Stiles as if he should follow, which Stiles doesn’t hesitate with for even a second, following the boy with the head of blond curls into the dark paths of the forest, trying to ignore Jackson’s screams trailing after him, an echo.

 

“I’ll kill you, 7!”

 

* * *

 

 

The forest snaps back at him as he keeps on running, twigs that cut into his cheeks and spilt his forehead open, following the bobbing shoulders of the boy from five who refuses to stop running but at least hasn’t turned on him. The sound of fighting and blood curdling screams dimming into the background.

 

It’s a split second before he jolts to a stop and for the second time that morning Stiles feels his feet sweep from under him. A crash of elbows and arms wrapping around his chest as he slams to the ground and rolls with it, shouting and clawing with his arms as desperation and adrenaline kick into him.

 

It’s not until he comes to a stop that Erica’s head peers over his own, face just as full of small nicks and cuts and frowning.

 

“Derek said run,” she jerks him, slamming his head down against the ground until his ears are ringing.

 

“Hey, hey, hey! Are you trying to kill me?” She sniffles into him, throwing her arms around his waist and half sobbing. “Since when did I do what Derek told me?”

 

 

“You were doing a fine job of that on your own.” The boy says, walking forward to stand in front of the both of them. He’s just as much a mess to look at, cut up with bits of branches and leaves sticking out of his hair and jacket. Wiping at his forehead with the back of his arm, the knife he used to cut Jackson with still gripped tight in his hand, a death grip, his arm shaking.

 

“Isaac,” he says, to introduce himself, his smile small and tight, like any minute he might take off running. “I thought maybe we could team up,” he shrugs. “Form a sort of alliance.”

 

Stiles vaguely remembers his reaping. The way that he’d walked onto the platform with wary eyes and a shuffled step, his face already full of a beating. He’d kept himself to himself in the training, quietly making his way around the different sections, a glint in his eye when he’d been shown the proper way to take a blow, how to roll with the punches. He’d scored a measly six in the games, but as Derek had taught him, final scores weren’t everything.

 

“That guy looked like a bully,” he says softly, sniffing. He’s thin and wiry, maybe around fifteen, with eyes that shift around at every sudden noise and movement. “He made a beeline for you as soon as the gong struck.”

 

Blinking, Stiles shakes his head, helping Erica climb off him. “Thanks,” Stiles says, as Isaac holds out a hand to help him up. “I really owe you.”Isaac grins, a curl that unfurls from one side of his face to the other. He’s got the pack in his other free hand, the knife now safely tucked away into a hidden pocket.

 

“You managed to grab one?” Erica asks astounded, flopping down beside him as she starts to gather her hair back, scraping back the few strands that have already begun to escape their braided prison.

 

Isaac nods, kneeling on the floor as he starts to empty out its contents: a small pack of matches, a woolly blanket, a canteen that’s so far empty and a pair of thick, black socks. Isaac sits back, rocking forward on his knees.

 

Erica’s the first one to ask, “Is that everything?” As Stiles moves forward, checking for any hidden remaining pockets.

 

“Seems so.” Isaac adds, gathering it all back into the pack and glancing between the both of them. Erica gets to her feet, warily looking back down the path that they came from.

 

“We should put some distance between us.” Stiles says, the air already beginning to cool down even though it’s still early morning. He can see the cotton candy puffs of air blowing out between the three of them. “We should start walking.”

 

That night the announcement sounds for thirteen of the twenty four tributes. The three of them sit back and watch the night sky, the waving wobbly lines of the unlucky tributes. The girls from 2 and 4, which considering it’s only the first night is truly surprising, both from 3 and sadly, Jennifer, Isaac’s partner tribute, both from 6 and 8, and the girl from 9, which means the boy with the pack, Matt maybe - must have kept on running, the girl from 11 and the boy from 12.

 

“We’ll take shifts,” Stiles suggests, taking the first watch, tucking his legs in beneath him as the night air drops cooler.

 

* * *

 

 

Isaac’s from District 5, sixteen and unlucky enough to have already lost a brother to the games three years earlier. His Dad, he explains, took to working at the power plant all hours after that, in an attempt to forget his heartache that left Isaac practically fatherless, coming home at dark hours of the night angry and ruthless and drunk.

That’s why he wants to go back and win, he tells them, to prove to his Dad he can do it. Erica and Stiles look at each other over his shoulders; they don’t miss the sharp edges, the way that his hands roll too easily into two shaking fists. They don’t discuss the fact that for one of them to win, Erica for her brother or Stiles, though he doesn’t say it – for Scott, that the other two have to lose in the process, that at some point soon they’ll have to discuss splitting up, carefully climbing a steady incline to make their way back to the cornucopia, to the deep lake beside it as the smaller streams all freeze up. Erica’s beginning to dwindle behind them, even wearing Isaac’s thick socks, wrapping her arms around her chest and taking small shuffling steps forward. Too loud, Stiles thinks, but the main aim is just to keep moving forward, keeping a steady eye out for colour in amongst all the white, his breath a cotton cloud before him, rising up out of sight.

 

“Maybe we could stop?” Isaac suggests, turning his head to indicate Erica who’s fast fading, growing tired.

 

“But the best thing is to keep moving,” he argues, forcing his own teeth not to chatter. “Look, I’ll scout up ahead, maybe we could take a quick rest, a half an hour tops.”

 

Isaac nods, whipping out his blanket and throwing it over Erica’s shoulders, his arms moving up and down her own trying to warm her up, a sign of kindness that if he’s not watching just might get him killed at some point.

 

Stiles is two minutes away when he hears the screaming, a high pitched cry that has him tearing around and running back. He can see some movement just further down in the forest, a stealthy shadow that’s following him on foot.

 

“Stiles! Stiles!” Isaac’s screaming for him now, but it’s Erica’s silence that has his throat stuck. He throws his pack down on the ground skidding to a stop, Erica’s body thrashing up and down as Isaac looks on wild eyed and frightened.

 

“What happened?” Stiles moves his hands to grab her, fingers skimming over to see where she’s been hit. “Isaac, what happened?”

“We were just talking, she fell over, I think… I think something hit her neck.”

 

There’s the sound of an arrow hitting the ground to his left, making Stiles jump. He sees the dark patch of blood then, the arrow hidden behind the curls of Erica’s hair as her eyes roll white into the back of her head.

 

“Go!” Stiles shouts, pushing at Isaac as he’s torn between following and staying put. Erica’s mouth slick as cherries as she judders to a halt.

 

The sound of running feet before Jackson launches himself right at him, screaming in rage, his fists raining down blows that don’t hurt half as much as his heart aches, the sight of Erica lying still as anything beside them.

 

“Get off him!” Isaac’s there in a heartbeat, hands digging into the back of his jacket as he hauls him off him. For a second Stiles lies there dazed, blinking stars out of his eyes, thinking of Derek, of Scott and Allison, his Dad, all the people back home waiting.

 

“You think you can just kill my friend and get away with it?”

 

“What?” Stiles snaps back awake, struggling to his feet, through the swim of fog as Jackson pins down Isaac beneath him. There’s no competition, pure strength against thin and under used muscles. Isaac’s used to avoiding strikes, not fighting back against them.

 

“Danny,” Jackson screams and it makes Stiles’ head throb painfully.

 

“We didn’t touch him,” Isaac gasps and Stiles catches the glint of a sharp knife threaded through Jackson’s fingers.

 

“He told me you killed him!”

 

“Who did?” Stiles bites out as the knife presses dangerously close to Isaac’s jugular, a thin trail of blood running down his neck, his breathing sharp and irregular.

 

“Please,” Isaac begs and Jackson just laughs at him. “We didn’t kill him, Stiles _tell_ him.”

 

Stiles steps closer, arms out and hands up, placating. “Jackson we didn’t. I don’t know what somebody said but we didn’t kill Danny.”

 

“He lied to me?” His head rolls back, the knife plunging down as Isaac rocks up and gasps, the hilt buried beneath his rib bones.

 

“No!” Stiles runs forward shoving Jackson off him, scrabbling for the knife as Isaac spits out blood, eyes flickering up at him, his fingers weakly scrabbling for the deeply buried weapon. “Isaac, please, no.” He shakes his arm, already knowing the outcome, the knife curling around his fingers, slick with Isaac’s blood as Jackson rocks back on his knees, laughing.

 

“He tricked me,” he roars, “that bastard, Matt, he tricked me.”

 

Stiles doesn’t have time to take anything in, twisting around with the knife in his hand and throwing the weapon straight at him. Not giving Jackson the time to catch him off guard or prepare himself for an attack, a fight that’s one on one between them already decided. The knife sliding from his fingers slick, heading straight for his ribcage, a straight hit that would make even Allison proud of him.

 

Jackson falls without a sound and Stiles starts running.

 

Three cannons boom off one after the other as Stiles runs until his chest hurts, until he can’t breathe. Until he no longer feels like he can feel anything.

 

* * *

 

 

It all builds up to this: the boy Greenberg’s cannon booms off a night later, by Stiles’ count leaving just the two of them. District 9 and District 7. Matt’s the kind of kid everybody overlooks, the quiet and kind one in interviews, the one who hid and watched during training. Focusing on weak spots and wheedling his way in to the careers alliances, picking them off one by one when they least expect it, working them into positions where others will pick them off for him.

 

On the fifth day the streams are all completely encased in ice and Stiles is desperate for water. He’s still got his dagger, the pack Isaac had snagged on his back when he’d run the day Jackson had killed them. There’s a swift breeze swirling in, a severe fog that freezes on touch, a gamemaker’s ploy to drive the both of them together.

 

When he spies the lake once again the first thing his eyes set on is the fact that it too is completely iced over. He stumbles down to the edge, knocking it back with his knuckles, trying to pry the first layer off with his knife when the arrow slices through him. His head roars back with the pain, every inch of him burning, eyes streaming, struggling to look around as he sees Matt just a heartbeat away, slowly fixing the next arrow to his bow as if now it’s just a matter of dragging out the last play for the audience.

 

He drags himself slowly backward, out further onto the ice as Matt grins, jogging down the hillside to meet him. There’s a trail of blood streaming out behind him, a pink line he keeps his focus on as he tries not to breathe, the pain spiking through him.

 

“You know I thought out of everyone, Stiles, that you’d be the one to make it.” He plays a hand against his chest, mock sincere, “the noble sacrifice you played, I mean, come on, volunteering for somebody because he’s going to be a Father? Well played, Stiles, it had the Capitol weeping for you.”

 

“It wasn’t a play,” Stiles grits out, tasting a bone ache in his teeth, his leg cold and numb on the ice, still throbbing.

 

“You know I actually feel sorry for you,” barks Matt, the bow and arrow going slack in his fingers.

 

“Yeah?” Stiles gasps, the dagger curled tight in his fingers. Matt following him out onto the lake as Stiles keeps crawling backwards.

 

“Because you got so close, you know, my own family didn’t even think I could win this and you, you got your whole District, hell the whole Capitol supporting you and now look were we are? You down on the floor and me rising above you. They didn’t even care who I was, Fenris couldn’t even wait to finish my interview. This is just a game to them, Stiles. Do you know that?”

 

“I do,” Stiles shouts, pushing himself up to his knees, the arrow lodged in his leg moving.

 

 “They sit in their cushy homes taking bets on who’ll kill us! My mentor sat drunk on his ass; he didn’t even try to train us.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles shouts and Matt starts running towards him, the arrow in his hand this time as Stiles leaps forward, ramming the dagger as hard as he can into the ice, the water so clear that for a second Matt stops, eyes wide, a smile blooming over his face as Stiles breathes out a gasping, “No,” shifting back a shuffled step, his plan seemingly failing.

 

A moan ripples across the surface of the lake, spider thin cracks spreading dark across the water’s surface, Matt’s feet disappearing from under him as shock fills his face and the ice cracks beneath his weight, his body falling. A noise that tears across the arena as Stiles cries out and tries to move further back, too late as at every side the ice starts cracking beneath him, a spider web of lines that spread beneath his fingers. Time to take in a quick, deep breath as the water sucks him down all at once, his fingers tired but still reaching, slipping off the jagged edges as he falls down fast into the dark water.

 

A faint cannon booming as he thinks of Scott and Allison and their baby, of Derek and how he’s failed to save him.

* * *

 

 

_24 hours later_

_Derek_

 

 

 

It’s the screams that send him running, feet skidding along the marbled floor as he turns the corner and pushes his way into Stiles’ room. Fingers catching on the doorframe and pulling to a stop as absolute chaos takes over, the attendants that have done nothing but hover for days now moving into action. Around this, Derek’s left to wait in the corner, even though all he really wants to do is make it to the centre of the room where right now Stiles is screaming, out loud, for his Dad, for anyone who will listen. Limbs pin wheeling as the attendants fall in and press him down into the mattress, figuring wrongly that somehow this’ll help him.

 

Pushing her way forward, a woman with fading orange skin tries to get her own voice to rise above Stiles’ high pitched keening, continuously pushing that everything is okay, that he’s in the hospital, that he needs to calm down if they’re going to help him.     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

It’s late evening, what feels like a day after the Capitol has finished patching up what they can, forever since they pulled him out of the lake and restarted Stiles’ heart over, forced it to keep on beating.

 

“Mr Stilinski,” a nurse shouts over everything. “You need to remain calm.” Which, Derek thinks, is definitely not going to happen when complete strangers are restraining him. She shoves at her hair, a cloud of pale blue froth on her head, the separate strands sticking out like gossamer, tossing it away over her shoulder, muttering that, “At this rate he’s going to pull out the stitches and bleed out all over.”

 

“Then,” says another nurse, pushing in and gritting his teeth at the same time he’s drawing out a needle. “We’ll have to sedate him.”

 

Derek draws in a single breath, taking two steps forward too late as the needle sinks into the flesh of Stiles’ forearm. One single bead of blood dripping down his elbow as the clear liquid plunges into his bloodstream and the fight, just like that, drains out of him. His body going limp as the nurses’ step back just in time for Stiles to catch sight of him. Time for Derek to catch the pleading look Stiles throws his way, recognising him, the way that his teeth catch at the bottom of his lip as he tries to sound out what looks like Derek’s name, right before the drugs kick in and his face glazes over, eyes rolling into the back of his head, dragging him back down to a place that’s completely numb and empty.

 

“He’ll be out again for a good few hours now,” says the orange skinned nurse, spending time to smooth down the blankets around him and looking pointedly at Derek. By this point he probably doesn’t look much better than Stiles does and he knows it. “Most of the mentors wait in their own rooms until we have everything back to the way it should be. Even better in some cases.” And with that she winks at him, shrugs and leaves Derek to it.

 

He should leave, he thinks; go back to trying to catch up on sleep, get some rest or something. Most mentors probably did ride out the waiting period in their own room of luxury, content in the knowledge that the Capitol will take care of everything. After all, it wasn’t as if there was anything he could do to help at this moment.

 

He sighs, tucking himself resignedly into a corner and feeling his eyelids start to drag down heavy, because even when he tries to think about moving back to his own bed he goes right back to that single moment of clarity, the way that he is sure Stiles had tried to call out to him, and even though he’s probably one of the last people Stiles wants to wake up to, he knows that he isn’t going to be going anywhere, that he’ll wait until the next moment that Stiles wakes up, confused and disoriented, that this time someone will be here, waiting.

 

It takes another twelve hours before Stiles wakes up again, blinking swollen eyes the colour of an oncoming storm open. A slow roll that starts from his shoulders and spreads down through to his fingertips running through him, bones shifting and cracking like a lazy cat spread out in the summer.

 

It’s the brief moment before everything catches up to him.

 

Eyes slowly blinking, coming up through the darkness before like lightning splitting across a dark sky they crack wide open. Its thirty seconds before everything comes back to him and at that stark realisation he tries to reach out, mouth sliding open into a silent scream before Derek’s there, pressing his hands into the dip of the mattress and forcing Stiles to look at him.

 

“You need to calm down.” He says, carefully still keeping his distance.

 

Stiles waits a beat before nodding, taking a breath in and then out, the exhale coming out all shaky, quickly looking left then right and, as if he has to force it, allowing himself to sit back slowly, arms perched like twin birds either side of the bed, ready to push off and take flight at a moment’s notice.

 

Derek remembers that feeling, waking up in his own hospital bed in the Capitol five years ago, arm pinned to his chest like a birds wing, slowly coming to as everything rushed back to him. Every rustle of a blanket like a footstep, every soft step inside his room another tribute, every drip from the IV bag a mutt coming for him, every noise a possible threat, a need to start running.

 

“Matt?” Stiles pants, his voice coming out all croaky.

 

The last thing he’ll remember is the fight in the lake, a fight to the death between districts nine and seven, falling, if he’s unlucky maybe even the slow feeling of drowning.

 

Derek shakes his head, moving back to sit down now that Stiles doesn’t look as much at risk of doing himself some damage. His leg probably still won’t hold him, Derek figures, even if he decides to try it. He shifts trying to pull himself up and make himself comfy.

 

“What happened?” Stiles asks him, his voice soft with sedatives, curling away quietly at the edges.

 

“You beat him.” Derek says. “You won the hunger games.” Even if he’s been on the wrong side of being a tribute long enough to add any kind of congratulation, because now is when the tough battle really begins, the fight to survive it.

 

Stiles nods, allowing the information to sink in slowly, as if he’s already aware that you don’t win the hunger games, you’re just lucky or unlucky enough to survive it.

 

“You’ll stay with me?” He asks, already falling away into the thick of sleep, his hand reaching out, pale and lax until Derek takes hold of it.


End file.
